by Ann Cleeves
So something else had happened on that Friday to frighten her, but now she realized that he was ignorant of it, and she would not be persuaded to talk. Again he regretted that Molly was not with him.
“Did you see Charlie that day?” he asked. “ How did he seem? Did he mention where he was going?”
“I had coffee with him that day,” she said. “He was very mysterious about his trip. I presume now that he was going to meet the people in the canal-boat theatre to discuss the project with them.”
“He didn’t drop any hints about selling the island?”
“No. Not at all like Charlie.” For a moment her mouth stiffened as she said, “ He was very bad at keeping secrets.”
Then the impression of anger was gone. She smiled at him, took his arm, and they walked together back to the observatory.
That night they sat for the meal much as they had the night before, but PC Martindale took Charlie Todd’s place. He was embarrassed, preoccupied, took refuge from his awkwardness in dreams of Rachel. There was the same hiss of the tillies, the same movement of the tide, the same prints on the walls of birds and shipwrecks, but everything was quite different; Because of Charlie Todd’s death, and because of the presence among them of a murderer, they were all different. In the shadowed light, with a policeman at the table, they could no longer pretend that this was just another meal. They ate in silence. Then Jasmine Carson spoke to George. He was sitting next to her and she did not speak loudly, but they all listened.
“John tells me that you intend to help the police to find the murderer.”
He emptied his mouth, answered slowly and calmly. “I’ve told them that I’ll help in any way I can. I’m in a special position, I suppose, because of my work, and because I wasn’t here when the crime was committed.” He smiled at Martindale, who had not been listening and was confused by the attention. “But I’m sure that the police are competent.”
“Are you?” she said crossly. “Someone broke into my flat six months ago and they never found the thief on that occasion. I want this matter sorted out quickly. We don’t want it hanging over the observatory. It will ruin our reputation, stop the serious work of the place.”
She spoke in sharp, staccato phrases, looked scornfully at Martindale, then continued. “ I’d rather trust you than the police, P.J. If there’s anything I can do I’d be pleased to help.”
George could think of nothing suitable to say. Doctor Derbyshire broke in nervously:
“Of course we all want to help, that goes without saying. But I don’t understand. Do the police really believe that one of us…? Does that mean that they’ll be poking and prying around the place…?” His voice faded. He became flushed and agitated. His reaction was so severe that George wondered for a moment if he had some medical complaint. His hand was shaking. “It’s intolerable.”
“It’s quite logical,” Palmer-Jones said mildly, afraid almost to provoke the elderly man to further hysteria. “It would have been just possible for someone to get here to commit the murder, but I really don’t see how they could have got off the island afterwards. The police searched very thoroughly when they got here.”
“Quite, quite,” the doctor muttered. His indignation had disappeared. He wanted the subject quickly disposed of. “I must apologize. Shock, you know. Shock.”
They finished eating and Elizabeth took the plates to the kitchen. She returned and they all lingered over the glasses of wine, waiting for someone to move from the table first.
John looked at Elizabeth, then said: “ There’s something that we wanted to tell you. We weren’t going to say anything just yet, but I’ve had to tell the police, so of course we want you all to know too. We’re going to have a baby.”
He was nervous and upset, but still managed to sound very proud. Elizabeth was suddenly overwhelmed with affection for him, an easy pleasing affection, as one might feel for a pet, or someone else’s child.
Jerry Packham was speaking. “That’s terrific,” he said. “I am so glad for you both. I’m sure we all are. Thank you for telling us. At a time like this we all need some good news.”
There followed a clamour of congratulation, but George Palmer-Jones, as he looked round the table, noticed that Mark Taylor’s smile was forced, that his voice as he shouted his best wishes across the table to John was unusually harsh and that he avoided looking at Elizabeth who was sitting next to him.
Elizabeth and John went to the kitchen then, to make coffee, and the others moved towards the common room to wait for it. George helped to gather the glasses together and was the last to leave the dining room. Pamela Marshall was waiting for him, just outside the door.
“Can I talk to you later?” she said. “I should have told you earlier. I’ve been thinking about last night.”
“You did go to Charlie’s?”
She nodded.
“Did you see anyone?”
“It’s not what I saw, it’s what I heard.”
Elizabeth caught them up then. She was carrying the pot of coffee. George opened the common-room door for her, and said to Pamela:
“I’ll see you later perhaps.”
Palmer-Jones drained his coffee quickly. He felt impatient, not just to speak to Pamela, but to be outside, away from the other people in the room.
“I’m just going up to the Beacon for a blow,” he said. “ Does anyone want to join me?”
“Yes,” Pamela Marshall said quickly. “ Yes, it does seem very stuffy in here. I’ll come if you don’t mind.”
She was walking across the room towards the lobby to fetch her coat when Paul Derbyshire said: “Would you be kind enough to bring my mackintosh with you, my dear? I believe that I’ll come with you.”
She stopped, surprised. “You,” she said almost rudely. “ But you never go out if you can help it.”
“Oh come, my dear, you’re exaggerating.” His voice was spiteful. “But of course, if I’m intruding …”
“No,” she said sharply. “ You’re not intruding.”
They went out together, and although George Palmer-Jones and Pamela Marshall walked briskly the doctor managed to keep up with them. He had a strange way of walking with his hips thrust forward and his shoulders back, so it seemed that he must eventually tilt backwards and fall, but despite his reputation for laziness he showed no sign of being out of breath. He stood with them on the Beacon and the wind blew his long white hair away from his face and there was no trace of his previous tension. He seemed to be aware that they wanted to be alone, and to enjoy their discomfort at his presence.
George Palmer-Jones returned to the observatory without having had the opportunity of talking to Pamela Marshall. He could perhaps have made more effort to do so, but his walk had relaxed him. It did not now seem so important. There would be time enough on the following day.
Chapter Eight
When Superintendent Savage reached the mainland it was almost dark, but a small group of men still waited. They were reporters who stared across the estuary as if they would get their story just by looking at the island. He made a brief statement of the facts, refused to speculate about motive or suspects. The interview took place through the Land Rover window, and soon he ordered Connibear to drive on, leaving the men there in a useless bedraggled heap, like driftwood washed up by the tide.
The police station was brightly lit and cheerful. It had been built in the sixties, was square and concrete. Connibear opened the door to the central heating, the smell of cigarettes, disinfectant and fried food from the canteen. The smell was so familiar that he did not usually notice it. But the day had seemed very long and he felt that he had returned from a foreign country. Savage was not bothered by such fancies. He went straight to his office and sent Connibear to check what had been happening in their absence, and to bring coffee and food. Then he phoned his wife. When he told her that he would be late, she was concerned that he might be tired, told him to look after himself, but there was none of the old panic of the Merseyside li
fe. She had been deceived into believing that things really were different here. Connibear knocked just as he put the phone down, came in backwards, pushing the door with his body so that his hands were free to carry a tray with two mugs of coffee, a pile of bacon sandwiches and a file.
“Well, lad,” said Savage, eyes bright with frantic, nervous energy. “What have they been doing while we’ve been out on that bloody island? Solved the case for us, have they?”
“Not quite, sir.”
Savage motioned Connibear to sit down, pushed the plate of sandwiches towards him.
“Go on then, lad. Tell me what they have been doing.”
“There’s a copy of the will, sir. That’s quite interesting.”
“Well?”
“The island, with all its buildings, the Land Rover and the dinghy that’s kept there goes to the Observatory Trust.”
“We knew that. Go on.”
“The remainder is to be divided between his nephew and niece, Jonathan Todd and Pamela Marshall.”
“How much is the remainder?”
“About £1000 in bank and building society accounts, and there’s a cottage towards the Storr Valley, which has been valued at about £30,000. He lived there before he bought the island, still used it in the winter and let it out to holidaymakers in the summer.”
“So Pamela Marshall was lying. Or could she really not have known what was in the will? Did the rest of the family know the contents of it?”
“Albert, the old man, did. I don’t know that they’ve spoken to the rest of the family.”
“Well, they should have done. Is there anything else?”
“They’ve checked Charlie Todd’s movements in that week when he was off the island. He was up staying with those young people with the narrowboat in the Midlands. He promised them the moon, apparently. I gather that they thought he was just a bit of a loony. They didn’t think that he would really come up with the goods. They were quite surprised to know that he really meant it.”
“He didn’t seem worried, frightened at all?”
“Quite the opposite, sir. Very enthusiastic. They say he enjoyed every minute.”
“When can we expect to hear from forensic?”
“Preliminary report first thing in the morning.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“Mr. Ernest Todd has been in, apparently, asking to see you. He wouldn’t talk to anyone else. There was no one of sufficient superiority available—or so he said. He did say that he’d be in all evening, if you want to see him.”
“I do want to see him. Have you got the address there? Come on then. We’ll go.”
The address was in a village just inland from Gillicombe. They drove down the narrow roads with a controlled frenzy. Savage was driving—just a little too fast. The lanes were lined by trees, and leaves blew in drifts across the road and were piled against the banks in a brown, soggy mess. The Todds had a flat in a white, square house at the end of a well-kept gravel drive. Expensive cars were parked outside. The Todds’ flat was on the ground floor and they used the original front door at the top of a short flight of white stone steps. A woman answered the knock. Connibear recognized her. He had often seen her in court, though he had not connected her with Ernest Todd. She invited them in. Savage looked around him with eager and undisguised curiosity. There was a wide, carpeted hall, a table with a copper bowl of flowers, then the woman opened a door into a big room, conventionally, comfortably furnished. The place was stuffily centrally heated, and Ernest sat in his shirt, slippered feet in front of him, watching the television. Helen switched it off. Ernest tried not to mind and stood to greet them. A large whisky was on a coffee table near his chair, and he smelled faintly of alcohol.
“Hello. Good of you to come.” His voice was rich, mellowed and deepened by whisky and cigar smoke. They sat on a settee. Connibear sat awkwardly. Savage leaned forward, his hands on his knees, and stared expectantly at Todd. He was unmoved by his surroundings, and waited like a child hoping for a treat.
“It’s a delicate matter,” Ernest said. “I didn’t want to discuss it with one of your constables.”
“You think that you might be able to help us? You have some information about Mr. Todd’s death?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “I’m not sure that it’s relevant at all, but I’ve always believed in helping the police. I thought that I had better tell you … You must decide whether it’s important or not … I can take it that our conversation will be in confidence?”
“Certainly, sir.” Savage grinned encouragingly. He was becoming impatient. “ Now, what is this information?”
“It’s about a boy called Nicholas Mardle.”
“He works for my husband,” Helen Todd interrupted. She too was becoming irritated by her husband’s inability to come to the point. “Ernest wanted to tell you that he has made threats against our family.”
“Has he?” Savage spoke without emphasis, but the child had received his treat, patience had been rewarded. “What exactly did he have against Mr. Todd?”
“That’s just it,” Ernest said. He felt more comfortable with an indirect approach. “He didn’t have any grudge at all against Charlie. It was the rest of the family he disliked.”
“Why?”
Ernest took a drink from the glass. His words became smoother, but he was obviously uneasy.
“His parents both worked for us. They were excellent employees and worked for us for many years. His father was caretaker and gardener and his mother began as chambermaid and eventually became housekeeper at the Grand. Because of Mr. Mardle’s position, they were given a cottage converted from some of the stables at the back of the hotel. Unfortunately Mr. Mardle had an accident—a road accident, nothing to do with his employment. He was in hospital for a number of weeks and then he died. We were in a very difficult position then. Mrs. Mardle hadn’t worked for us for some time because of ill health. Although the son, Nicholas, worked for us he was only an assistant manager and didn’t warrant being given the tenancy of one of the cottages. And of course we needed a new caretaker, and we would have had to compensate him financially if we couldn’t provide accommodation.”
“So you threw Mrs. Mardle and the son out of the cottage.”
“We asked them to leave. Of course we followed the letter of the law, gave them adequate notice. We even made a generous ex gratia payment for their inconvenience. Mrs. Mardle was quite happy.”
“But Nicholas was not?”
“He’s unbalanced,” Mrs. Todd said decisively. “He’s always been a surly, bad-tempered boy. I’m surprised not to have seen him in court.”
“Yet you decided to employ him, Mr. Todd. Why was that? Because you felt some responsibility for him?”
“Only partly,” Ernest said. “ Laurence—my brother—felt that he might be useful to us. He didn’t get very good O level grades and he failed his A levels, but Laurence thought that he had a very good grasp of figures. We decided to start him off in the shop to see how he got on. We thought that we might be able to move him then to help Laurence with the wages and accounts. One of the boy’s O levels was in computer science, and we’ve recently installed a computer. Of course we could take on a qualified programmer, but…”
“That would have cost you more.”
Ernest nodded. He did not recognize any criticism in the detective’s words.
“When did you ask the Mardles to leave the cottage?”
“We gave them notice to leave at the end of February. They moved at Easter.”
“Where did they go to?”
“They were rehoused by the council.”
“So all these threats were made six months ago?”
“Nicholas did come to see me then to ask me to reconsider my decision, but no, the actual threats were made at the end of July when his mother died. He was very upset, naturally. He had some fanciful notion that the move had contributed to her illness and her death. It was all nonsense. I only listened to him becaus
e I felt sorry for him. He’s never had many friends. His mother spoiled him. Her death obviously hit him hard.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“He blamed the family for his mother’s death. He talked about vengeance. He said that he would do the same to us. He said that he would like to kill us all.”
“But you can’t have taken him seriously? You would never have continued to employ him if you’d thought that he meant it.”
“Of course I didn’t take it seriously. He was so upset that he didn’t know what he was saying. He even apologized the next day. Not a proper apology, but he was much calmer. I must admit, though, that I was in favour of dismissing him. Not only because of the outburst against the family, but because I thought he might be a disruptive influence in the shop. Father asked me to keep him on.”
“Your father still has an interest in the business?”
“He never stops interfering.” Helen Todd immediately regretted these words and tried to soften their impact. “He’s a very old man. I’m afraid his business sense isn’t as keen as it was.”
“Did Nicholas Mardle discuss the move from the cottage, and his mother’s death, with your father?”
“He made rather a scene there, after his mother died,” Ernest said. “ He actually went to the old man’s house, started shouting and screaming at him. I would have called the police, but I didn’t hear about it until afterwards. Mardle went to see Laurence too, but I don’t think that he threatened him. He broke down completely, apparently. Said he didn’t know how he would carry on without his mother.”
“The boy hasn’t made any threats since then?”
“Not to me.”
“And his work has been satisfactory?”
“Yes.” Ernest Todd was grudging. “I’ve had no complaint about his work.”
Savage stood up, walked over to the window. It was not a signal that he wanted to go, he just needed to move. He felt no constraint. It was as if he were in a friend’s house. They were all aware of him. Even though he was not speaking, he was still the centre of attention. They were all quiet, waiting for him. He turned to face them.